


when you are alone (you are the cat, you are the phone)

by JustMcShane



Series: hard to find & lucky to have [3]
Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Bad Puns, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, fixit, it's alluded to anyway, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-27 05:01:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17155775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustMcShane/pseuds/JustMcShane
Summary: Ace flops back onto her bed, and briefly considers the age-old question: is it weird to name your newly-adopted trauma cat after your alien ex-boss?





	when you are alone (you are the cat, you are the phone)

**Author's Note:**

> The final gift of the year - for the mysterious and ever-supportive M, who asked for an addition/continuation to my Seven & Ace post-Gallifrey series! And how can I say no to a request like that - especially when I've been itching to continue it for quite some time?
> 
> Title from Don’t Let’s Start by They Might Be Giants.

"Right, let me guess," Ace says. "There's a bomb underneath the building that we need to defuse in fifteen minutes or less, before the fate of the universe in general is compromised irretrievably."

The Professor just shakes his head, and smiles unreadably. "Try again."

"The manager's an alien refugee," she guesses. "Uh, a deadly virus just got released inside that we need to contain? Or, you left some important artefact in the basement and only just remembered to pick it up? Or -"

"All very good guesses," the Professor says, as they come to a halt in front of the cat shelter, "but unfortunately, incorrect on all counts."

She adjusts her scarf and crosses her arms. "Okay. Right. So…"

"We are here," he says, with great significance, "to get a cat."

Silence.

"Just… a normal cat," she ventures, unsure. "No tentacles, or special alien properties?"

"An Earth cat, yes," he agrees.

She casts him a suspicious glance, and then looks around for a moment or so. It doesn't take long for her eyes to fall upon the small sign near the door, certifying the establishment as a registered ESA-certified pet shelter. She looks over at the Professor.

"You're getting me a trauma cat." It's not even a question, just a flat statement of disbelief. " _Seriously?_ "

"I believe the correct term is 'emotional support animal'," he replies.

Ace just shakes her head. "Okay, that's worse, somehow." She pauses, placing a hand on the wall for balance, and he stops as well, turning around to face her as she thinks.

It takes her a minute or two to get past all her immediate, irrational objections; and move onto the things that might actually be proper issues.

"Okay, first of all - can we even  _have_ a cat? Is that, you know -" she struggles for the right words, briefly. "- a  _good idea?_ In the TARDIS, I mean?"

"I've kept pets before," he tells her. "A few cats - a dog, once. Although, that probably doesn't count…"

"That brings me to my second question," she says when he trails off. "A cat? I thought dogs were supposed to be the service animals. Bit of a break from tradition, isn't it?"

He shrugs, a smile curving over his lips. "Tradition is overrated. And besides, we both know you're more of a -"

She rolls her eyes. "Cat person. Yep. Very funny."

"I thought so, yes."

Silence.

"…do you really think I need this?" she mutters, refusing to meet his eyes.

"I think it certainly couldn't  _hurt,_ " he says, and twirls his umbrella from hand to hand with swift, fluid motions, tapping it against the floor occasionally, and then it comes to a gradual, natural stop. "To be clear," he tells her seriously. "You don't need to choose a cat if you don't want to. We can even leave right now if that's your preference." A brief pause, and then, "I only thought you'd appreciate it. That… you might like a cat."

She only takes a moment to consider it before she's shaking her head. "Nah - you just surprised me, that's all." She grins. "A cat sounds  _brill,_ actually."

The smile that he sends back in return is genuine and also kind of relieved, like he wasn't sure how she'd take the suggestion. She doesn't know what he was expecting, really - this is an actual proper Good Suggestion for dealing with… well, stuff.

"Shall we?" he offers, gesturing towards the door.

So they spend the next hour-or-so in the cat shelter; visiting practically each and every one of the cats and kittens there. It's an almost religious experience. They're all such  _good cats -_ every shape and size and color and pattern. Choosing just  _one_ is a chore in itself, really.

The cat that Ace eventually settles on is of slightly smaller-than-average size. He's black and white all over and illegally fluffy and doesn't mind being picked up or squished gently or scratched behind the ears, which are all things that are likely to happen, since he also happens to be very,  _very_ soft. In addition to this, he seems to have a permanently sour look pasted across his feline features, although Ace isn't taking it very personally - that just seems to be his default look, and he purrs a lot - which is a good sign that you shouldn't judge a book by its cover, or a cat by its facial expressions, or whatever the saying's meant to be.

They head back home, one ball of fluff and noncommittal grumpiness heavier. The Professor is carrying a few bags of cat food, just in case they don't manage to find any in the TARDIS like he said there would be; and Ace is hefting her new cat's carrier in one hand. The paperwork (probably useless, considering their home address is constantly shifting time and place) and cat-caring tips are balanced on top.

"Have you decided on a name yet?" the Professor asks as they reach the TARDIS, and he starts searching around for his key.

Ace shifts the paperwork to look. "Uh, apparently he's called Domino? But…" she peers through the holes in the cardboard box the cat's contained in. The cat peers balefully back. "…I don't think that really suits him much."

"No," the Professor agrees, and unlocks the door, pushing it open so she and the cat can get inside first.

"Any suggestions?" she asks, placing the carrier down near the inside of the door, and toeing off her boots.

"The Therapy Cat of Rassilon," he says, very seriously; and also manages to very seriously dodge the boot that she chucks in his general direction without even looking at her.

She goes to retrieve her boot and drops it at the door with her other one, just near the coatrack. "Any  _real_ suggestions?"

He smiles, and shrugs; already programming in coordinates for wherever they were headed next. "Clawdius."

"No," she says, decisively. "No puns. Not for my trauma cat. He needs a proper, dignified name. Not something ridiculous he's going to be ashamed of later on."

"Oscar," he proposes.

"Wilde?"

"Of course."

She actually properly considers this one for a minute or two, but shakes her head, even as she bends down to open up the cat carrier. "Too much to live up to."

"We wouldn't want to give our new friend unnecessarily high expectations," he agrees.

The Cat Currently Without A Name emerges from the carrier, glancing around the brightly-lit console room - eyeing his new surroundings with no small amount of suspicion. His whiskers twitch minutely, and he wanders up to the console to inspect it, sniffing around occasionally.

"He'll be fine in here, right?" Ace asks, looking up at the Professor. "Won't wander off into any mountain ranges or whatever, yeah?"

"The TARDIS will keep him out of trouble," he says. “She’ll twist the corridors – redirect him if necessary.”

Ace grins; pats the wall affectionately. “Clever thing.”

“She is.” The Professor’s smile is equally fond, directed up at the ceiling.

Ace ponders for a second or two, while the cat continues to explore the console room, rather cautiously; and the Professor busies himself with nothing in particular.

" _Oh_ ," she says abruptly, looking at the black-and-white patterning, and the cat's expression, and something occurring to her in a brilliant flash. "Oh my god, I've got it. I'm a genius. I've got the perfect name."

"Hm?" he says, eyebrows raising.

She picks up the cat, and swings him back and forth in the air. He looks annoyed, which means that his facial expression doesn't change at all. "Narvin," she says, straight-faced.

They lock eyes, and there's a long silence where neither of them moves or blinks, and they're just staring at each other. After about five seconds, the cat begins to pointedly complain - meowing loudly, and wriggling to get away; and that's about all it takes to set them both off at about the same time. Within moments, they're both laughing as Ace sets the cat down on the ground of the console room, patting him in apology - proper, uproarious laughter, too.

"Yes," says the Professor, and smiles down at the newest addition to the TARDIS crew. "I can rather see the resemblance."

The newly christened Narvin Junior is practically preening over the attention that Ace is giving him, and looks even more pleased when the Professor sits down next to them to scratch him behind the ears.

“Thanks,” Ace says, catching his eye. “He’s – this is good.”

He doesn’t say anything, just smiles and taps her neatly on the nose, and she grins back before scooping up the cat by looping an arm under his belly, and he only sort of protests. “Come on, Narv. I’m gonna show you my room.”

* * *

 

She drops Narvin-the-Cat on the floor, and closes the door behind her, and huffs out a slightly incredulous breath. She has a cat now! That’s an unexpected development. Not an entirely unwelcome one, but definitely unexpected.

She wonders if she’s ever going to get used to the constant string of curveballs that the universe seems hell-bent on flinging at her.

Ace flops back onto her bed, with her cat nosing around her room silently but curiously, and briefly considers the age-old question: is it weird to name your newly-adopted trauma cat after your alien ex-boss?

Yeah, it is, she concludes, but weirder things have happened and frequently  _do_ continue to happen, so it's probably all good.

"At least you don't have that rubbish beard," she tells Cat Narvin, who looks up at her and meows disdainfully at nothing in particular before leaping up to join her on the bed.

Similarities between Cat Narvin and Time Lord Narvin – both eternally grumpy-looking, both probably never take their uniforms off, both surprisingly willing to spend time with humans despite what a lot of their species would have you believe.

Differences between Cat Narvin and Time Lord Narvin – the size (obviously), the lack of complaint at physical contact – and the fact that the feline version, apparently, is a  _lot_ lazier than his humanoid counterpart, if the fact that he seems content to sit on her chest and knead vigorously, but not particularly painfully, at her chest, purring infrequently.

It takes a lot away from the heaviness in her mind and the infrequent shake in her fingers, and there’s something about the size and shape of the animal that’s sitting on her that feels a bit like some home that she hasn’t been to for some time. Not home like the TARDIS, not at all like that, but –  _a_ home, nonetheless.

“Everything all right?”

She looks up, and she sees that the Professor is in the doorway to her room. He’s taken off his hat; the umbrella is nowhere in sight, and he seems at ease – no hint of tension anywhere, just soft eyes and a little quirk to his mouth

“Oh yeah,” she says, burying her hands in her cat’s fur and feeling the rumbling vibration of his breathing steady her. “I think everything might actually be perfect,” she says, and for once, it’s completely true.


End file.
